​​ The sun’s morning rays could not be found in the dim lit room. Evan tapped his forefinger on his crossed arms. It was as much patience as he could muster, listening to the infernal racket that Yaakov polluted the room with as he worked. Calling such racket music was a delusion Evan could not understand. Just as one particularly scream-laden piece seemed to be running a little long, the music stopped. “All done, buddy!” Yaakov called. “Great!” Evan replied relieved. Yaakov handed them over while Evan gave them a quick examination. “Ok, looks good,” he reached in his pocket and pulled out a large stack of bills. “Keep the change.” “Thanks man,” Yaakov said with a mixture of flattery and of feeling flattered, “that’s what I like about you. Even though I don’t know your name, you always pay in good hard cash.” He looked once more at the picture of Evan on his screen. “Man you look different with a beard. It really looks good on you.” Evan felt his facial growth self-consciously, “You think so?” he asked, not sure whether to take it as a complement, coming from an overgrown youth covered in tattoos and piercings. “Yeah, in a 1920s Muscovite mobster, sort of way.” Yaakov grinned cheekily. “Either that, or a mugger.” Evan rolled his eyes in annoyance at the rebel. He was also thinking how he should have shaved back at John’s house, especially since his short beard had a great presence of grey hair. Far more than, he felt, a man of a mere thirty-nine years should have. “You will delete the info right?” Evan asked. “Duh,” Yaakov replied. “I just press this and ‘bye.’” The three passport layouts vanished. “You see, I designed my hard drive components myself. When I wipe, there’s no way to recover even traces with my micro-magnetic sweeper system.” “Good to know. Is there anything else, before I go?” “Yes, you could give me more stats on the girl: phone number and maybe her measurements. She looks to be a seven out of ten.” “She’s out of your league,” Evan replied, “trust me.” “A guy can dream.” Yaakov replied with a shrug. “You always did get the hot ones.” Before Evan could correct him as to the nature of his female colleagues, the counterfeiter rose and stretched. “Oh by the way--” his words were cut short when he suddenly went stiff. He fell forward against Evan, who caught him. A warm fluid covered Evan’s hand that was supporting the back of the man’s head.Blood! Yaakov’s face was frozen in his partial grin, his eyes stared downward at nothing. Evan looked up, as on the wall before him, an ominous black spot grew, and through it stepped The Czech. “You should drop him and run, but it’s not going to help you much.” The Czech sneered, as he produced the familiar tranquilizer gun from his jacket. Evan had been easing his hand into Yaakov’s pant pocket. He saw The Czech’s muscles twitch as he prepared to shoot. Evan dove backwards and to the left, rolling behind the computer desk. In his hand he held the cell phone he had retrieved from Yaakov’s jeans. Backing up against the office desk, Evan tried to calculate his next move. His thoughts gave way to reflex, when he noticed a black spot appear in the desk by his neck. He dove forward though a doorway as a dart shot by him, having passed through the desk and computer. His roll ended with him standing up and staggering into a large room with a staircase, hugging the wall as it spiralled upwards. He ran up the stairs. As the building of Yaakov’s hideout was an abandoned development project, many of the floors that the stairs would have led to, had not been built, therefore his only destination could be the roof. Evan did not hear any pursuit. But he refused to look back. In three more flights and he would make it to the top, but to his consternation, a black circle appeared in the ceiling, above the next landing. The Czech slipped through the void. Once he was out of the wall, the black stain vanished, returning the ceiling to its original drab appearance, while he landed lightly on the steps. Evan was shocked, and he could not help but show it. The Czech grinned, “Come now, you didn’t think I was a one-trick dog, only able to merely phase through things?” he shook his head as he raised the tranquiliser. “I would think, you would expect the unexpected.” Evan’s eyes looked slightly upwards, noticing the edge of a sky light above the centre space of the staircase. He silently fell backwards over the railing into the air, hoping he would be able to take off quickly enough to not hit the cement floor below. Just as his fall began to pick up some speed, he felt the energies swirl around him, and the inertia of being rocketed towards the domed skylight. He pushed both of his hands upwards, sending a ripple to impact into the plastic dome. The dome shot off of the building into the air, followed by Evan. The Czech lunged forward and looked up into the hole the skylight left behind, just in time to see his target disappear from view. He hit the railing in frustration. Up in the air, Evan pulled out Yaakov’s cell phone and dialled. He landed on a flat roof and listened for an answer. “Emergency services,” a female voice responded. “Hello, I have an adult male with head trauma and bleeding badly.” Evan reported calmly. “Is he breathing?” she asked. “Yes.” “Alright, I need the address.” Evan gave her the directions and hung up, rubbing the arm that had been shot the night before. He needed to remember to move it as little as possible. He was about to take off again, when he had the sensation of being watched. He turned to see three pre-teen boys, standing dumbstruck and wide-eyed; their ball game forgotten. He smiled and nodded politely, “Good evening lads.” he said in English. “I’ll be on by way.” With that, he took off into the air again, leaving three slack-jawed boys in his wake.~~~~~~~~~~ “Top of the morning to you!” Evan greeted John and the Sharov siblings, as he rounded the corner of the whitewashed building, onto the lakeside lawn. “What took you so long?” Mashka asked, in a poor attempt to cover her concern with irritation. “I landed a few blocks away where there were fewer people. But that’s not important.” Evan’s tone quickly changed, “We have a problem. The Czech found me, I think they are on our trail again.” “That would be correct.” Aleksei mumbled. Evan glanced at the boy, then to John, giving a knowing look. “So I assume that they did have a tracking device?” “That’s not all. If they have been tracking Aleksei since the train station, and they figured out where you were going, then that means they must be onto our plan,” John said. “And since you all were at my house, they might have tracked down my plane.” “Yeah,” Aleksei spoke up, “The Messenger stabbed this into the base of my neck.” he held up the small device between his fingers. “And why haven’t you destroyed it?” Evan asked, keeping his tone even. “Because,” Mashka answered, “it wouldn’t have helped much getting rid of it anyway. They’ve already tracked us this far. We could use it. At least,” she turned to Aleksei, “that’s the idea.” Evan lowered his eyes, deep in thought, “Alright,” he said, “what have you come up with so far?” “They don't know everything yet,” Aleksei began, “It may seem our only way of escape has been compromised. But what information could they have found out about you? That you have a plane, probably. Would they know which dock it’s currently at?” “Maybe not…” John replied with a hint of hesitation. “It is parked in a different boathouse than usual, and government records, Russian government records at that, take a while to update. For once, bureaucracy might come in handy.” “Still,” Evan countered. “As soon as we head to the docks, they’ll figure out which boathouse is the right one.” “That’s where the tracking device comes in.” Aleksei said, “I will go into a neighbouring boathouse, throwing them off. They will surround that one, and go after me. You and Mashka, meanwhile, can hide and jump them from behind, while John works on getting the plane ready for take-off. Once the people following us are taken care of, we hop onto the waiting plane, and get out of here.” Evan shook his head, “Could not someone else be the decoy?” “No,” this time John elaborated, “both you and I have the training to take down the enemy in a quick and stealthy ambush. And Mashka has the ability, though she lacks experience. Aleksei is the only logical option.” “Yes I am,” Aleksei insisted, “and I would have plenty of water, just in case.” “Aleksei,” Mashka said, looking into her brother‘s face, “Don't you think you are being too much of an astronaut? I mean, you act like you can do anything, as long as there’s water nearby. Are you certain that you can do this?” Aleksei grinned. “There’s little that is certain in this world, but even closer to me than the water, is God. I will be fine, but I am trusting you to have my back.” She nodded. “And you will. I trust you. Just don’t do anything stupid, besides what you are already planning.” 'Thanks for the vote of confidence, sister.' He had been expecting an all-out ‘nyet,’ but from her response he sensed she was taking him seriously. That felt good. Evan made eye contact with each one of them as he spoke, “Taking all things into consideration that leaves two tasks for us: finish the plans for tonight, and scope out the docks.” Everyone nodded in unison. In just a few hours they would open a Pandora’s Box. They could only hope that what sprang out would not be more than they could handle.

​​ From the realms above the grey clouds where the morning sun showed, Chekhov descended in a calm fall, trying to make as little commotion as possible from his kinetic waves and leave no visible disturbance in the clouds. However, this method also caused him to approach the ground too fast, so his landing was harder than he expected. He crumpled to the ground with a brief cry of surprise. He needed to improve his control, and soon. His knees could not put up with too many more bad descents. Looking around the innocuous alley, he found a door a few metres from him, hidden behind a large dumpster. Squeezing behind the dumpster, he knocked. He waited a moment, but there was no answer. He put his ear to the door and felt, rather than heard, the Russian heavy metal music rattle the building. “That’s Yaakov for you.” he said, rolling his eyes. He tried the knob and found it was unlocked. He stepped in and tried to yell over the music. “Yaakov! Are you here?” He turned left to a source of light. It was two computer screens and a lamp, on a paper cluttered desk, in front of which there was a large high-backed office chair. He could see green spiked hair, sticking above the chair’s back, as it bobbed up and down with the beat. “Yaakov!” he yelled over the ruckus. The chair spun around to reveal a man in his late twenties, covered in tattoos and ear-piercings to the point of mutilation. “Yo, what you want?” he replied, “Ever heard of knocking?” “I di-,” Chekhov could barely hear himself so he walked up and hit the mute button on the stereo. “I did,” he said calmly, but with an air of frustration. “I was wondering if you could make a few I.D. cards and passports.” Yaakov chuckled, “You just get right to the point, don’t you? No “Hi”s, or “How are you”s? he gave a look of injured ego. Chekhov sighed. “Hello Yaakov, you seem well! However, I myself am not so overwhelmed with ecstasy. I would really appreciate you doing a quick job.” The man gestured to the equipment around him. “Hey!” he exclaimed, “I’m your dude.” “Thanks. You could get them done today then? In say, half an hour?” Chekhov asked. Yaakov sighed, “Not good ones, but thankfully I keep some ready-made spares just for this situation. They’ll get you through light security. All I need are pictures and names, and you’ll be set in fifteen.” “Could you throw in a couple of disposable phones?” “Certainly, they are in the drawer to your left.” Chekhov opened the drawer and picked out two small cell phones with built in cameras. “These will have to do.” Chekhov replied. “How much?” “For you, two thousand for the two cells, and passports will be a mere forty-five hundred each.” Yaakov replied, suddenly putting on a business attitude. “Two thousand for each passport.” Chekhov replied, attempting to barter. “Four thousand, last offer.” Yaakov replied, seeming peeved. “Thirty-five hundred,” Chekhov declared. “Or I walk out.” “Gotcha.” Yaakov nodded grudgingly, muttering something about being treated like a charity. “Now, I need my music back on.”~~~~~~~~~~ Leading the way, John took a left, away from the lake, and after a few hundred paces, the siblings found themselves in the midst of the city. “Umm,” Aleksei looked around at the brick buildings and the tall fence of a power station. “This isn’t the docks. Why are we here?” “Da…” Mashka winced, holding her ears. “the crackling sound hurts.” John nodded and pointed to the wires above them, spreading out from the power transfer station. “That noise is coming from the tiny sparks of electricity as they jump along the frayed wires. Since they are overcapacity and old, they emit a substantial electromagnetic field, which you might be feeling right now as a tingling sensation.” “Ah! Well that is fascinating.” Mashka exclaimed. “And though I don’t mind the fuzzy feeling too much, why are we here? Shouldn’t we be heading to the docks to wait for Chekh-, er-, Evan?” “We are hoping to knock out any tracking devices.” John explained. “The way you “lost” them so easily, had myself and Evan worried. If one of us has a tracking device, we should disappear or become distorted on their readings. Now, please, examine any part of your clothing that could have been tampered with.” Aleksei stepped forward to help his sister with her jacket when he felt a sharp pain at the base of his shoulder, where The Messenger had cut him. It worsened as he neared the power station. Suddenly his knees buckled beneath him and he was gasping for air. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. “W-what’s going on?!” he cried through chattering teeth. John pulled down Aleksei’s collar, and saw the bandage. He explained while he took it off. “What you are feeling is the electricity that leaks from the power lines to travel through the air around us, the field I mentioned earlier.” “So why does it hurt!?” Aleksei demanded. Carefully John spread open the wound on the boy’s neck. “Aha! I think I see something. It seems they tagged you with a subcutaneous chip.” “That means they know where we are!” Aleksei felt stupid. “I-I thought it was just a cut!” “Calm down.” John said. “Let’s go to the alley over there. I’m going to remove it.” As Aleksei moved away from the lines, the pain lessened. He sat down on a crate and John stood behind him. “What’s that?” Mashka asked, pointing at the small box John had just removed from his coat. “I’m going to have to perform an operation. It’s just a quick one, but it’s going to hurt,” he warned Aleksei, “If you want, you can cry for mommy.” Aleksei clenched his teeth and glared, as John sterilised the wound. With a pair of long tweezers, he pulled the flaps of skin apart. Aleksei panted through gritted teeth, tears squeezing from his eyes. Mashka bit her lip until it almost bled as she watched her brother’s suffering. More than once, she had gotten the urge to slam her fist into Ingles’ focused expression. She held herself back with weakening self-control. “We had a hunch, and it turns out we were right.” John said, holding a small black device in the tweezers. “At least we know for sure, we were being tracked. That gives us an advantage.” Aleksei tried to move away but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder, “Don’t move, I still have to stitch it up.” John warned. After he finished and re-bandaged Aleksei’s shoulder, he examined the device. “I know why it was hurting when we were near the electrical lines. It has an unusually high voltage battery. My guess is that the EMF caused it to feel somewhat like a bee sting.” He lowered the tweezers for Aleksei to look at it. The device was shaped like a triangle and had three sharp edges, which explained why it slipped into the skin easily. “That little bugger should have been causing you a lot of pain.” Ingles said, “But you didn’t seem to mind that much.” “No, I didn’t really feel anything. My shoulder was just numb.” Aleksei replied. “It only hurts now that it’s out.” “Maybe that’s why it had the extra voltage,” John theorised, “to disrupt your pain receivers in that area. At least, that’s what I can assume with my limited medical knowledge. Anyway, it will hurt to move your neck and right arm for a while.” John took the tracking device and laid it on the ground. He raised his foot to stomp it. “Stop!” Aleksei ordered. “Why?” Mashka and John asked. “We can still use it.” “How?” Mashka inquired, confused. Aleksei smiled and pointed to himself, “I can be used as a lure. They would only know where I am.” John picked up where Aleksei had begun, “Which means, you can be used to draw them out, and leave them vulnerable to ambush, if we play our cards right. So we use their own advantage against them. If the device is still working, of course.” John looked closely at it, “It seems that it still is. But we’ll need to get in contact with Evan again.” Mashka and Aleksei silently nodded. John handed Mashka bandages and the latter proceeded to gently place them over the stitches. John turned to Mashka, “In order to complete our goal, you’ll need this.” He bent down and pulled a holster from his ankle. He handed it to her but Mashka hesitated. “I-I don’t know how to use this.” Mashka said, apprehensive since she had never even touched a firearm before. “Look,” he explained, “Just don’t point it at anything you aren’t willing to shoot, and keep your hands steady.” “Ok,” she replied nervously. “Relax,” he reassured her, “you have enhanced senses. That includes sight, right?” She nodded. “Then you are much safer with this.” She attached the holster to her belt and buttoned up her coat. It felt odd for her to have a firearm, but to her wonder, she did feel more secure. “Now we do not know when they’ll show up next.” John said, “So let’s get going. We’ll talk as we go.” As they walked back towards where Chekhov/Evan had said he would return to, John expanded on their developing scheme, “I get the hunch they aren’t going to do anything until we are all together, and at night. The last thing they want is for stuff to get too public, if I understand what Evan told me.” “So why don’t we leave now?” Aleksei asked, “We could head out on your plane and scram, while they can’t get us.” “The issue is, again, the tracking device. They are most likely tailing us as well. Which, if they are, and we get rid of device we still have to lose them. So leaving now, we don’t have a chance to set up the ambush you suggested.“I‘m not really good with this kind of stuff,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders, “It seems Evan and Aleksei are the real idea people here. So let’s head back to meet him, so you can figure out what to do.” Turning to Aleksei, he handed him the small device in a plastic bag. “You can keep this with you for now.” They made it back to the white wall, the odd statues stretched out before them. Then they waited, watching the streets and alleys before them, and the clearing sky above.

“This is insane!” John exclaimed, jumping up from his spot around the table. “That’s amazing! How do you do it?” he demanded, as he stared at the cloud of evaporated coffee spiralling around Aleksei’s hand. “This is why they’re after us.” Chekhov said. “Honest? So all of you can do something like this?” “Yep,” Chekhov nodded. “Aleksei seems to be able to control mist. I can fly. And Mashka has enhanced senses.” “This is insane!” John repeated. “Not in my wildest-” “Yes, amazing I know,” Chekhov interrupted, “but we’re wondering if you could help us. I will stress that this could be dangerous.” John thought a moment. His head was pounding as the alcohol left his system. He mulled over everything carefully then replied, “Ok, I’ll help you out. I could use a change of scenery.” “Good, but it's very late, we need some sleep.” Chekhov suggested.~~~~~~~~~~ Three thousand metres above the vastness of Russia, The Administrator languished in the lounge on his jet, sipping a glass of water as he gloated at a plasma screen, which was normally hidden by the ornate wooden wall panels. It showed a map of the lake country of Karelia. A single yellow dot flashed on the screen. “Oh Chekhov,” he said, “All you can ever be is a puppet.” He took a sip then rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. “I am curious how you will fulfil your purpose.”~~~~~~~~~~ The air shrieked with the sound of wheels kissing the runway as the Administrator’s jet landed at Karelia National Airport. Once the aircraft pulled aside from the landing strip, he walked down the ramp with the air of a dignitary. He was met by The Messenger, Anya, and The Czech. Behind him five agents also descended. “I thought you would bring more capable backup.” The Messenger wheezed, its tone suggesting that its hidden face was staring dubiously at them. The Administrator dismissed his jibe. “This is all we will need for what I intend to accomplish. We’ll discuss the plan on our way there.”~~~~~~~~~~ Mashka wrung her hair dry with the towel as she walked into the main room. John had given her a change of clothes, which she assumed had once belonged to the Japanese woman in his pictures. The woman liked red the most, judging by her wardrobe. Aleksei, John and “Evan” were engrossed in conversation. She was still hesitant to believe that Evan was Chekhov’s real name. And even if it was, it felt weird calling her former professor that, despite the fact that he had only had that job for a couple of weeks. “What is this early morning conference about?” Mashka asked. Aleksei looked up and smiled, “We are deciding how best to get out of the country.” “Yes,” Chekhov replied, “and John here has just the way we can do it. We’re going to fly out of here. Of course doing that would normally require us to go through a terminal, but there are far too many security cameras there, for my comfort.” “But here’s the good part,” John began, where Chekhov left off. “I have a loophole, since I have an aquatic plane, also called a puddle jumper. I used it all the time back in Canada’s Northwest Territories, on those lakes. It takes off from the lake docks, where security is minimal. That is our mode of transportation. The real topic of debate is when we should leave. Soon as possible may be a mistake. I want us not to be the first ones to depart. There are a few other puddle jumpers at the docks and I would like some of those to head off first, give them a few more targets to chase after.” “Wait, but we lost them, no?” Mashka asked. Chekhov faced her and replied, “Yes, we believe so, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I don’t know what they will try next.” “Where are we going once we get in the air?” Mashka inquired. She could not believe that she was going to leave Russia. This time John answered, “We can’t leave the country yet. That would involve some security procedures. I've already submitted a flight plan, just waiting for approval. You two must acquire some altered identification. And I know just the spot.” Aleksei smiled and said, “Oh the wonders of a morally grey companion!” Chekhov glared then countered with hurt dignity, “I prefer to see it as legally grey.”~~~~~~~~~~ A long ribbon of grass acted as a border between the port town and the freshwater sea, forming an attractive shoreline park. Modern impressionist statues were threaded throughout, from the edge of town, to the ports. Chekhov and Mashka waited together on the grass in front of one such statue, which was probably a running man, either that or a bird post-cat. "So..." Chekhov attempted to end the silence. "You have been quiet this morning." "Have I? I don't ever talk much." "Well, you seem to be quiet for a reason..." He dug his boot toe into the sidewalk resembling a truant schoolboy caught in his crime. "And I feel that reason has to do with me." Mashka cocked an eyebrow at Evan as he scratched his beard to ease his nerves. "Is that so?" she prodded. She knew it sounded passive-aggressive, but she was quite curious. "I have been two-faced all this time, and I would not blame you for distrusting me. But, I want you to know that, even though Chekhov acted on his career, Evan is acting on his-my conscience... and regrets." Her confusion was now clear on her face. "What I'm saying..." he sighed. "I do not want to be your professor, captor, or co-conspirator. I would like to be your friend. So once this is all over, can we start fresh? As friends?" his tone became even more sheepish, "I need a friend..." With eyes wide with incredulity she responded, "How can I--?" Aleksei and John’s taxi pulled up, and Mashka cut her words short, there would be time later, presuming this hackneyed plan worked. It had been decided that they would arrive separately to avoid attracting too much attention. Aleksei and Chekhov unloaded the trunk of their luggage. Each had taken the chance to pack a few things John had given them, as well as stop by a thrift store for some changes of clothes. Mashka had abandoned the red dress for a pair of loose pants and dark jacket. Aleksei looked around at the vacant streets, save the unique and sometimes creepy statues. “So where is this guy?” he asked. Chekhov coughed and replied. “I will go meet him soon, he's another acquaintance of mine. However, you three are not going to meet him.” “Why?” Aleksei asked, as he zipped his turtle-neck sweater. “Because he is unreliable and I don’t currently know what mischief he’s into.” Chekhov pointed to a brick edifice thirty meters away. “So first, see the white wall over there? Go stand there. We need some pictures for the I.D. cards.” John pulled out his camera as they stood in front of the wall. “Smile” he said. Aleksei, Chekhov and Mashka all smiled calmly. The light flashed and John looked at the picture. “Those should make some good prints, Aleksei looks a bit girlish though.” The youth bristled but kept his lips tactfully sealed. “Excellent, be right back.” Chekhov said, taking the camera and walking away from them. He stopped and walked back, “What names should I use for you two?” “Oh,” Aleksei mused, “I suppose we will need fake names.” “Hmm,” Mashka pondered, “How about our mother’s parents?” “Tatiana and Nikolai?” Chekhov responded. Mashka looked at him with incredulity. “When did we tell…” her voice faded. “Oh da... you know everything about us.” she answered herself, with a hint of irritation. Chekhov shrugged in apology. “Tatiana is a common enough name that it shouldn’t raise any notices. But if both of you use your grandparent’s names they could track you down. So Aleksei, being your cheerful and lucky self, you are henceforth Nikita.”Nikita?! Aleksei winced. Is that supposed to be a pun, or another jab at my masculinity?! “Now,” Chekhov continued, “You still need a patronymic and family name. I'll leave those up to my associate.” Chekhov grinned at the sibling’s worried expressions. “I’ll be going now.” He walked away from them, headed towards down-town Petrozavodsk. Watching him depart, Mashka nervously rubbed her wrist. “I don’t like this idea.” she said. “He should have someone to watch his back.” John huffed dismissively, “I assure you that Chekhov is more than capable of caring for himself.” He turned in the opposite direction. “Come on, we’re going to the puddle-jumper.” “What about Chekhov?” Mashka asked. “He’s going to join us later.” John answered. Aleksei glanced back, just in time to see Chekhov take off into the sky. “But he said he would be right back. We’re supposed to wait here. Except-,” Aleksei paused as a light turned on. “You two have not told us something,” he surmised. "Guilty as charged.” John admitted, “At this point, it’s best that you act as if you have no knowledge.” he continued walking ahead of them, “Well are you coming?” he asked. The siblings reluctantly followed, struggling to dispel their concerns.

​​ The Messenger turned to Anya and The Czech. “Task successful. We’ll continue the mission tomorrow. There’s no hurry now.” he wheezed. Both of them nodded. The three pursuers returned to the train station with leisure. Anya tarried a few steps behind while The Czech and Messenger discussed the hotel arrangements. Her mind drifted elsewhere. Biting her lip, she considered Chekhov’s actions. It seemed Chekhov had indeed defected. 'Mid-life crisis?' she wondered, 'No… he’s too young for that.' The Messenger turned to her and said, with what seemed to be a humorous tone behind the hissing and sucking, “The Czech and I have decided that you get the floor.” She glared and a knife blinked into her hand. “Not if you want to wake up alive.” The Messenger laughed and was joined by The Czech, who secretly decided to sleep in the bathtub, away from his lethal companions.~~~~~~~~~~ Mashka paced back and forth in front of the suburban house where Chekhov had dropped her. The owner of the building had not returned yet, and for some reason she supposed to trust him. “Where are they?” she asked, looking up at the darkened sky. Her stomach was dancing with worry. “I’m going to kill them. If they are hurt, I’m going to kill them!” she threatened aloud. She stopped, detecting a new scent in the area. She found herself, once again, resenting her sensitive nose as she picked up the stench of alcohol, sweaty musk, and very bad breath. She looked over to see a man stumbling towards the house behind her. He was in his mid-thirties, had dark unkempt hair and a beard covering much of his face. He looked like a very drunk Ural lumberjack. She moved to the side, and he did not seem to notice her, as he stumbled up the porch and fiddled with the lock. “Wait,” she said, speaking in only barely accented English, “Are you, John Ingles?” “Hmm?” he turned and peered at her with blurry eyes. “You speak Engrish?” Mashka rolled her eyes, “That is what I am trying to do, yes. But let me repeat, are you or do you know a John Ingles? I was... dropped here by a friend to meet him.” “Yeah, zat’s me.” he slurred. She smiled half-heartedly, though she fumed on the inside. 'Your choice in friends never ceases to amaze me, ‘Chekhov.’ ' She was at loss. The inebriated man before her was supposed to be their saviour who could get spirit them out of Russia. This left her to wonder just how many other variables would be throwing themselves in her face, before midnight. “Do you know a man by the name of Iosif Chekhov?” she asked, hoping that he did not, and that this was all a coincidence. There had to be more than one John Ingles in Karelia, right? The man blinked. “If you need a place to stay, you don’t have to pretend you know me.” He turned, trying to find the door latch. “I am not lying!” she insisted, resenting his perception of her. Then she remembered how the conductor had addressed him. “He may go by Yuri.” “Stilr noth’ a clue.” John replied, shaking his head then regretting it as the world spun before him. He gripped his head, bent over, and vomited a putrid pile of orange post-edibles onto the porch. She grimaced. 'Atlichna, he might know Chekhov by another name,' she groaned. He turned to her and sighed, “Look, I really dun’t care at thish hour, so if ya need a place to crash, just come in. Zere’s a spare room, jusht don’t be a jerk and steal anything a’right. I’m not in the mood for trouble.” “But--,” she began, trying to figure out what to say next. She was embarrassed that he thought she was looking for a handout, or worse. However, Chekhov was supposed to know this man, or at least, that there was someone who once lived at this address, so she would let him explain when he arrived. “Well, make up ya mind mish, I don’t want to be standin’ here letting in the cold all day.” he barked. “Alright,” she inclined her head in gratitude, “Spasibo for your hospitality, but really, a friend did drop me off here and he will be here any minute.” she walked up the porch stairs and went in, hopping over the vile puddle. Mashka had never been in the habit of walking into strange men’s homes, nor did she ever consider the possibility that she would one day. She glanced around the main room beholding the previously unexplored realm of the single male. There were a few bottles of liquor scattered on the kitchen counter, other than that the place was well kept. Either he had a maid, or this drunk had a a decent sense of cleanliness. That thought afforded her a little comfort. She did not fear for her safety. He was clearly inebriated beyond thought, and she, as of late, had certain advantages that made her more than capable of protecting herself. The man stumbled past her and sat down on the leather couch and flopped onto his back. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, almost indifferent to her presence. “Uh,” she started a little hesitant, “could I make some dinner? I haven’t eaten for a while.” “If there’s food in the fridge, go ahead.” he said. “Spasibo.” She walked to the refrigerator. To her satisfaction, the contents seemed to be standard fare, not what she would have expected from a presumed bachelor. 'Maybe he’s just having a really bad day. Either that or he had a business meeting.' She knew it might be the latter. Though her own family never drank much, most Russians were notorious for their drinking. Virtually everything, from job interviews to birthdays, was accompanied by copious amounts of vodka. She looked through the cupboards. There were many cans of foods she did not recognise, but she found the staple roots: onions, potatoes, carrots, rutabaga, and beets. An idea came to her. She reached back in the fridge and grabbed some sausage. Soon, she had a large pot of water heating on the stove, as she chopped the vegetables. Her foot bumped a trash can. She started to move it out of the way but something caught her eye. There was a framed picture in it. Reaching down she lifted it up to see. There was a man, who must have been John, a little more well-kept, but still sporting the beard, with his arms wrapped around a very attractive Asian woman. She noted the scenery behind them, they were standing in front of the giant Ferris-wheel in London, The Eye. They were both smiling, like the world was a perfect place. She began to feel a measure of sympathy for the man, seeing as the house lacked the expected feminine touch. Placing the picture carefully back in the trash, she washed up and resumed her previous task. Tossing the chopped sausages into the boiling pot of water, followed by the vegetables, she looked to see what spices were in the cupboards. Again to her satisfaction, there was a large assortment of flavours and spices to choose from, including many that did not have Russian labels and were written in some East Asian language. She avoided those, having no idea what the contents could be. Within forty minutes, the scent of fresh stew wafted through the house. Mashka served some of it up into two bowls. She carried them over to the table in front of the couch, where John was struggling to keep his eyes open as he read a book. She looked at the aged binding and it was covered with unfamiliar symbols. 'Chinese? No, Japanese perhaps?' she wondered. “Dinner is ready.” she said, laying down the bowls on the oak table. He put his book aside and sat up. He blinked, stupefied. “It smells pretty good. I didn't expect you t’ go t’ all dis trouble.” he said. “And here I was thinking I was doing yoush a favour.” “If it makes you feel any less indebted, I was famished. And I also made enough for Chekhov and my brother, they should be here any moment.” she said, glancing at the door. “You insist that I know this Chekhov.” he said looking at her oddly, “I suppose I’ll know when he gets here.” “Well, think of the predicament I’m in!” Mashka replied, her face earnest, “I have no idea who you are, but Chekhov kept saying you were an old friend and a reputable person. Instead I run into someone who; has no idea who Chekhov is, and is sloshed beyond coherence!” “You got me there.” he conceded. “That’s a tough pickle. Who is this Chekhov to you? I might be able to figure out who he is.” “Well he’s,” Mashka thought a moment. She had a few possible answers: 'Option A, truthfully; he works for a secret organization that kidnapped my brother and I, but is now helping us escape. Option B, half true; He’s my English professor. Option C, roughly believable; A friend of the family treating us to a road trip.' She chose ‘Option C’ despite her doubts that if this was indeed a friend of Chekhov, he would be aware of his shadier side. Ingles looked at her suspiciously, seeming to know she was not telling the whole story, but he let it slide for the time being. Mashka lifted the bowl to blow on the hot soup and noticed the book next to him. “What are you reading?” she asked. “It’s a novel, Seven Samurai,” he replied, seeming to have sobered up a bit. “So is it in Japanese?” “Yeah,” he shrugged, “I always intended to learn Japanese, but I never seemed to get around to it. I guess now is as good a time as ever.” He was quiet for a moment while he ate. His eyes widened in wonder. “This is really good soup. Where did you learn to make this?” “My mother,” Mashka replied, “But this isn’t the normal family recipe. You have a lot of foreign foods so it was difficult finding something I was familiar with. Are you English?” “No, Canadian originally, but I lived in London for a while.” he responded, taking another spoonful of her stew. “You seem to like a lot of Japanese stuff,” Mashka said, lightly prying. There were wall hangings, statuettes, and Japanese literature on every shelf. “Those weren't mine,” he retorted, “And I would like to eat my food in silence, not to seem ungrateful, of course.” She nodded in reply. His personal life was none of her business. The door to the house opened, and both of them turned. Aleksei and Chekhov walked in panting. “Evan!” John exclaimed, his inebriation seemed to vanish as he jumped up, almost stumbled over Mashka, and gave Chekhov a hearty pat, “What are you doing here?” “John, glad to see you again. Sorry about the intrusion.” Chekhov replied, taking in deep gulps of air after their long walk. “Not at all! So I take it you were the one who dropped off the young lady here.” John said, gesturing to Mashka. “I hope she was not a problem, giving you a sudden guest.” Chekhov apologised. “Oh not at all, Evan,” John replied, “We were just having a nice dinner date.” he winked at Mashka. She smiled sarcastically than gave him an “in your dreams” glare. Mashka stood up and turned her attention to Chekhov, “Did he just call you Evan?” Aleksei looked between the two men and his sister, who had all been speaking in English. He had only caught a few words here and there. “Umm, who’s this Evan you all are speaking about?” Chekhov scratched the back of his head, “Well, that’s my name.” he replied in Russian. Aleksei stared dubiously then replied, “I knew you weren’t Russian when I first met you, but Evan? Isn’t that Scottish? I thought you were Belorussian, Latvian, or maybe even Finnish, but Scottish!?” “Yes, my real name is Evan, but please keep that under wraps for now.” Chekhov/Evan replied. “I think I’ll stick to Chekhov.” Mashka said, sounding annoyed. Then her eyes widened a moment, noticing his missing sleeve and bloody makeshift bandage, “You’re hurt! What happened?” she laid a gentle hand on the bandage. “Just a nick.” Chekhov reassured her. “Ripped a few muscles but I’ll be fine. Aleksei here wrapped me up quite well.” She looked at Aleksei with a sideways grin, “Bonanza, right?” “Da!” Turning towards John she asked, “Do you have first aid?” John nodded, “In the restroom, I’ll get it.” “Spasibo.” Aleksei glanced between Chekhov and Mashka. “Umm Mashka,” he spoke up suddenly, “I’ll take care of it. You’re tired, and it smells like you’ve been busy cooking. Just take it easy.” As a secondary motive, he did not like the idea of Chekhov being in close quarters with his sister any more than necessary. Mashka looked at him quizzically then smiled, “Well, spasibo. In all honesty, blood makes me squeamish.” 'Me too,' Aleksei thought, feeling guilty about his hidden motive. John returned with the first aid supplies and Aleksei took them and began unbinding Chekhov’s dressing. “Eww,” John exclaimed, “That’s pretty nasty. That it a bit more than a "nick," Evan.” “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Chekhov waved it off, gritting his teeth as Aleksei cleaned the injury. Hearing John call Chekhov, Evan, made something occur to Mashka. “How is it he knows your real name?” she asked. “No one at The Association called you Evan. Is he an earlier acquaintance?” “Yes,” John said, “Evan and I here, go way back. I think it was in Bosnia when we first became friends.” “So you know about The Association?” Mashka asked John. “Hey, how my buddy employs himself isn't my concern.” He patted ‘Evan’s’ back, heartily. Mashka rolled her eyes and looked back at the pot of stew on the stove. “So, would you all eat the dinner I made while you catch up on old times? Maybe after a little explanation I can begin to make sense of all this.” They sat on the floor around the coffee table, eating the warm stew and getting acquainted with one another. To Mashka, it seemed like the most normal thing she had done in a while.~~~~~~~~~~​ Around the corner, Anya and The Czech sat in the idling car. “Should we not take them in now?” Anya asked, anxious. “No,” The Czech replied, “They are not going to go anywhere. We can now track them indefinitely.” “Why?” Anya asked. “Because, The Administrator has a plan. I think he wants to see how they would have pulled it off,” he replied, “My guess is that if we cause them to fail just as they are within reach of success, it will force them to realise that they don’t have a chance to defy him. Besides, making a ruckus here would be dangerous. We need to wait for back up.” She sniffed. “Lately, all his plans have been failing,” she pointed out. “Who are you to assume such things?” he snapped back, “Everything might be going exactly as planned.” Anya stared back at The Czech. He had worked with The Administrator much longer than her. Was The Administrator just toying with them? It made her head hurt, thinking how everything her boss said or did, might have dozens of possible motives. “Perhaps he just knows how to make it look like it went his way, so as not lose face?” Anya suggested. The Czech shrugged, dismissing the topic, as he pressed his back into his seat and closed his eyes.

Aleksei reached the edge of the vast Lake Onega and knelt. His breath hitch at the sight of the boiling water. He waved his arms in circular motion over the edge of the dock. As though it were a pot boiling over cool mists billowed from the sea and crept over the ground around him. Then as in a chorus of hisses a thousand misty snakes scattered away from him, covering the ground with a web, He lowered his arms and relaxed causing the mist to become a transparent sheet, establishing his detection field. "I see you, Anya!" He muttered, having located her in his web. "Now for her friends..." The lake erupted before him and a newly birthed cloud cascaded over the dockyard and train station, causing anything further than a few yards to vanish into the gloom and lights became fuzzy glowing orbs which revealed the dense mist-wraiths on patrol in their master's realm. Once Aleksei assessed the direction farthest from any of the beings caught in his cloud, he bolted, keeping near the walls of the boat and warehouses. He stumbled as confusion and vertigo hit him. 'Oh wow... this feels so weird... I can't move... I need to shrink the web...' ​ He severed his connection with the wider cloud, shrinking his sensory radius to only thirty metres. Once he did he was able to stand and resume running. He fought queasiness as he adapted to mist-feeling and moving at the same time. He could not feel his skin, it was as though his nerves were spread over the ground around him, colliding with crates, building people, gravel, every sensation reported back to him with a few seconds late depending how far away the object was. The only way he could compare it to was as if he was in a game with a sluggish internet connection and instead of looking at a monitor with his eyes, his skin was laid over all the terrain like ribbons. No longer using his eyes, he felt and discovered a suitable hiding place between three stacks of wood pallets. He sat down and tried to slow his breathing, but remained ready to flee. Now that he was still, he extended his fog screen, awaiting Chekhov’s return, and establishing a wide “home field.” Beyond the nearby highway, there was no immediate activity. A few minutes later, he felt something. His sheet of vapour was encroached upon. He was fairly certain it was The Czech, his large feet moving with a confident stride. Then, another set of more cautious steps were in the opposite direction. Judging by the size of the soles, he assumed it must be the Anya he had seen in the cafeteria with Chekhov. Both of them were walking towards him. Closer and closer they stepped, he tried to keep himself calm, despite his pounding heart. 'What is taking Chekhov so long?' The Czech turned his direction for a moment. Aleksei almost thought he had noticed his thoughts, but instead he walked on to look in another area. The same happened with Anya. He felt them get farther and farther away. Once he felt they were out of hearing range, he began to emerge from his hiding place, returning power to his eyes so he could see normally. Just as he was about to climb out, his heart jumped because of the rattling pallets behind him, followed by a throaty hiss. “That vapour isss helpful detecting people…” Aleksei looked behind to see a hooded figure, straddling the pallets like a spider. “…but only if they are on the ground!” The Messenger leapt at Aleksei who tumbled away and bolted. The creature pursued him gaining ground. Aleksei tripped, and fell facedown. He rolled over to see the phantasmal beast leap towards him. The boy found himself paralysed, as precious seconds ticked by, robbing him of any chance to escape. Strength and willpower returned to his legs when he heard a loud jet-engine sound, descending from the night sky. He rolled out of the way, in time to avoid The Messenger’s pounce. He got up on his feet, and was about to run, when he saw swirling dust on the ground in front of him, the roaring noise intensifying. Chekhov dropped out of the sky, in front of him. “Get out of the way!” he barked as he raised his hands. Aleksei dodged as the air and dust swirled between Chekhov’s hands then the ripples shot forward, striking The Messenger and causing him to fly backwards into a warehouse wall. The Messenger landed feet first against the metal, kicked off and flipped, landing in a crouch, then charged towards Aleksei. The youth attracted mist to the ground surrounding him. Just as The Messenger was about to strike, a stream of mist rushed up and deflected his fist. He spun calmly into a kick to Aleksei’s gut, which was also deflected by the vapour making a counter strike. He tried to lash out repeatedly, but each time a cloud snapped up and took the blow, giving Aleksei time to back away. The Messenger reached out and only barely touched the back of Aleksei’s neck, before being knocked away by a solid right hook from Chekhov. Chekhov tried to intervene, but there was no possibility for a shockwave without harming the boy. So he waited for an opening to dodge in and attack with his fists. Aleksei felt a sharp sting. There was a little blood oozing from a small wound where The Messenger had touched him. The Messenger paused, wheezing. Aleksei jumped away and back-flipped, granting some distance between The Messenger and himself. Chekhov, likewise, backed away so they were on opposite sides of their opponent. The creature nodded appreciatively towards Aleksei, “It seemed you have created some kind of shield for yourself. Very ingenious.” Aleksei’s denser arsenal was continuing to grow bigger as he gathered more water from the lake, and the surrounding air. It was now a knee deep screen with a five meter radius around him. “Thanks I suppose,” he replied, then looked at Chekhov, “I think we should leave.” he suggested. Chekhov nodded and prepared to fly towards Aleksei. However, mid-flight a bullet hit his left arm from behind, causing him to spin around from the force. He held his arm in pain, and backed against the wall Aleksei was in front of. The background noises of the city dimmed. He gasped, “Aleksei, away from the wall!” Both of them moved to the centre of the space between the two warehouses. The Czech phased through the wall they had been against. “I suppose silence is not always the best cover.” the bald man said humourlessly. Chekhov examined the situation. The Messenger and The Czech were on either side of them. But neither of them had their weapons drawn. 'Anya must be acting as sniper!' Chekhov realised. The Messenger drew its own firearm. “Ssspakoynay nochi,” he hissed. Chekhov raised both of his hands as quickly as he could, the air rippled in front of them. The tranquilizer darts erupted from the barrels as he released a blast, just in time to deflect them. Aleksei sensed a third person’s presence. He looked up to see Anya atop the roof opposite them, just as she threw some sort of can. It rolled next to their feet. Aleksei pushed it away with the mist and ducked, covering his ears. A bright light shone around them, and a squealing sound rattled in their heads from the shock grenade. Chekhov was taken by surprise, and fell to his knees, disoriented. Aleksei, though his head ached, he could still sense his surroundings with the fog. He knew they were surrounded and he needed to do something. He raised three large pillars of vapour around him, “Chekhov, fire to your direct left!” Chekhov raised his uninjured hand and blindly released a wide shockwave, throwing The Czech into a wall, which he phased through. Aleksei sent the three pillars of fog towards The Messenger and Anya. They easily dodged them, but the move accomplished Aleksei’s goal. He grabbed Chekhov’s shoulders, “Let’s go!” Chekhov nodded, beginning to regain his sight. He blasted off into the sky. Aleksei screamed until he was breathless. He had never been launched into the air, not even on an amusement ride. He wondered what the view was, but he figured it would be best if he just held on with eyes shut. “Not bad with the distraction, kid.” Aleksei nodded, holding his breath in terror. 'He could have left off the ‘kid’ part.' The wind stopped rushing and the sound of distant traffic replaced it, like a peaceful melody. “You can let go now.” Chekhov said, patting on the youth's embracing arms. “R-r-really?” Aleksei stuttered, cautiously loosening his grip. “Yeah.” he replied, dropping Aleksei from his back and sitting on the grass next to him. Aleksei opened his eyes and found himself above the bank of Lake Onega. He looked across the water, “We came from over there?” he asked in wonder, pointing down the shore at the docks. “That’s just amazing!” He glanced around, “Where’s Mashka?” “She’s not here?” He asked, looking around. “Yes I see that, I was asking where is she now.” Aleksei said anxiously. “I guess I could not fly that far, too exhausted.” he sighed. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way. But let’s rest here a little while.” “Da, we should bandage up that arm anyway.” Aleksei grabbed Chekhov’s shirt sleeve and gave a skilful tug, ripping it off at the seam. He examined the wound. “It seems it just passed through, only a flesh wound.” he folded up the sleeve, “This is probably going to hurt.” Chekhov breathed heavily as Aleksei tightened the bandaged, causing him to grind his teeth in pain. The boy smiled at his handiwork. “There we go. At least you won’t bleed to death, yet, but if anyone sees us there are going to be questions.” He bent down and wiped the blood off his hands in the grass. “We need to find some place to clean you off properly.” “Where did you learn all this?” Chekhov asked. “You would be surprised what they teach at school during first-aid month. That and American westerns.” Aleksei replied chuckling. “My dad was addicted to them, even if the Russian voice-over sometimes sounded like a company of belching cows.” Chekhov joined in the laughter as they both looked up at the stars, happy to be alive.

​ Anya leaned against a corridor wall, pouting. For the last few hours she had found reason to snap at anyone who crossed her path. She knew she was being childish, but the current situation irritated her even more than being deprived of regular sessions at the firing range. “I’m going to pound him.” she muttered for what was probably the hundredth time. A spastic shiver rolled up and down her back. She turned her head to see The Messenger stood only a few centimetres away from her side. She shrunk back quickly and gasped, “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Her face twisting in disgust, as she always did whenever the dark figure would happen across her path. Her immediate reaction was, however, squelched when she noticed it was not wearing the typical, daunting black. Instead it was wearing green slacks, a red and green striped shirt, and a black hood. Stranger still, was that it was standing upright, and came to just below her forehead, rather than its usual chest height. “Why are you dressed up?” she asked, giving herself a mental kick for giving into curiosity, even when it involved this thing standing before her. Its voiced whined and hissed from the void behind the hood, “Becaussse you and I are going hunting and I need to blend in… if only ssslightly. The Czech is coming asss well of courssse. We have a lead from the teamsss already sent out. Three people, of Chekhov’sss and the targetsss’ dessscriptionsss, were ssseen boarding a train to the north.” “Excellent! Let’s get going then!” Anya exclaimed. “Easssy on the earsss!” the messenger wheezed angrily. “My apologies,” Anya replied, with what she knew was still an irritably loud voice. After making one more, angry hiss, through which Anya could imagine The Messenger rolling its eyes, if it had them, it continued, “Anyway, The Czech isss waiting, and you know how he hatesss waiting.” it chucked, as if at some personal joke, though it sounded like a coughing fit. A nervous Anya fell into step with The Messenger. At this moment, the creature seemed almost human in its mannerisms. And for the first time ever, it seemed willing to speak with her. She observed it as they walked. No longer crouched over, it appeared to have broad shoulders and a lengthy step. Judging by this, she figured “it” was probably a “he”… probably. But she still could not be certain because his, its, face and form were concealed. She wished she could be certain. 'Stop being so curious!' Her inner self yelled. 'Just a few moments ago, you were successfully irked about Chekhov. Let’s get back to that, shall we?' Anya followed The Messenger out the door where they met The Czech leaning against a car in the front courtyard. He raised an eyebrow at The Messenger’s altered appearance. He glanced at Anya and she shrugged, expressing her mutual confusion. After this momentary diversion, The Czech returned to the task at hand, gesturing for them to enter the vehicle. He drove to the nearest airport where a private jet was waiting for them. Aboard the airplane, they settled in the lounge. Anya flopped on the couch against the wall, and The Czech reclined in an overstuffed chair. The Messenger, taking their example, sat across from Anya on another couch. It lay down with its back towards her, and soon all that could be heard was its hissed breathing. Normally, Anya would groan in irritation, but her thoughts were elsewhere. As the plane took off, she thought of how many different hypothetical situations that could leave her partner innocent. 'Innocent? Is there such a thing?' She chuckled to herself, returning to her topic of thought. 'Chekhov must be doing all of this for a logical reason,' of this she was positive, 'just like back in Minsk.' She looked out the window and made a silent promise, 'Traitor or not, I’m still going to give him a solid punch to the gut.'~~~~~~~~~~ Mashka woke up from her slumber feeling famished. She sat up in the bunk, or at least she tried to, until she hit her head on the ceiling. Rubbing her crown, she looked irritably at the offending surface. Once recovered, she climbed down and pushed the bunk back up into the wall. Touching her head a few more times, she turned and saw a brown bag. Inside was a sandwich with a note which read:'I figured you would be hungry after waking up. I made sure the cook put your favourite ingredients in.' With love, Aleksei. She looked in and noticed it also had a cold pack, to keep from spoiling. She smiled. Her brother was often easy-going and avoided excess effort, but he did not often fail to be courteous. After stretching and brushing her hair back under her cleaned scarf, she decided to eat in the dining car. She could use a little human contact, even if she was not supposed to talk to anyone. Being around people would be nice for a change. She walked out to the dining car, glancing at all the unfamiliar faces, until she noticed Chekhov and Aleksei playing a card game near the far side of the car. “Oh, you’re awake.” Chekhov commented, looking up at her. “Privet,” Aleksei greeted her cheerfully, though he did not take his eyes off of his cards. She sat down next to her brother, pulling out her sandwich, “I decided to eat out here, needed some open space.” She looked outside seeing a darkening sky and city lights. “How long did I sleep?” “About six hours,” Chekhov answered, not looking up from his hand, “I thought you were in a coma, judging by how loud you were snoring.” “I don’t snore!” Mashka retorted a little too loud. Some of the other diners glanced her direction with looks ranging from startled to amused, Chekhov being among the amused. Her face turned a few shades red. Aleksei rolled his eyes. “People don’t often snore when in a coma.” “I stand corrected.” Chekhov chuckled. She coughed and lowered her voice, “So are we almost there?” Mashka asked, taking a bite from her sandwich, attempting to hide her embarrassment. As if hearing her question, the conductor declared over the intercom, “Passengers, we are going to arrive in Petrozavodsk in a few moments. Please prepare to disembark and we hope to have the pleasure of serving you again.” Mashka hurriedly finished eating. “Whew!” Aleksei exclaimed, smacking down his hand of cards. “If I had to lose one more time by this card shark, I think I would have gone insane.” Chekhov smiled in victory, and said, “So, we’ve arrived at the next stage. Welcome to the Autonomous Republic of Karelia.” “What are we going to do here?” Aleksei inquired. “Pull another favour?” “Most likely,” Chekhov confirmed, “Though I may have to stop at a bar, or two, to find him.” “For a professor with a reputation to uphold, you have interesting friends. Let me guess, you saved this guy’s life too?” Mashka inquired. “No, he is an old friend, from before my Association days and a very proficient pilot.” Chekhov said. “He should be here this time of year.” The train came to a halt and the people flowed about them, resembling a sluggish river. Despite the pace, the crowds soon thinned out when they left the station, as the late winter dusk began to fall. Aleksei was about to ask Chekhov for more details concerning his friend, when Mashka suddenly halted. He turned around to look back at his sister, “What’s wrong?” “I smell something.” Mashka whispered. “Really?” Chekhov asked, “I hope it’s not me!” Mashka gave him a withering glare, as she continued, “No, not just your musk, it’s familiar,” she stiffened, focusing on the sounds around her as her eyes roamed the station quickly, “It’s your lady-friend, Anya.” “Well, darn...” Chekhov groaned. “We need to get out of here.” “We should stay with people though, right?” Aleksei asked. “Nyet Aleksei,” Chekhov replied, “all of us in The Association are given various I.D. cards of government agencies. They could simply apprehend us under guise of an arrest. If we could blend into the crowd that would be nice, but then again, so could they.” Chekhov walked down a side hall, away from the main entrance. “When The Association is after you, crowds are only a hindrance.” As Mashka followed, she swept the diminishing throng with her eyes, and noticed Anya in the crowd. “On your eight, we need to hurry!” she hissed urgently. Chekhov walked through one of the emergency exits and the fire alarm sounded. “Come on!” he ordered over the cacophony. He let them run first, then followed as they disappeared into the evening, leaving confusion in their wake. He directed them to the loading yard where they took shelter between a few old train crates. The three of them lined up, their backs to the rusted hull of a shipping compartment. “Maryja, I need you to listen for them.” Chekhov urged. She nodded, closing her eyes to concentrate. In only a few seconds she could pick out among the noise, what she needed. “I hear someone. They’re coming from the left and…” she paused; a perplexed look appeared on her face. “I-, I can’t hear anything.” she said bewildered. “What do you mean?” Chekhov asked. “Did they stop moving?” “No, I could hear their steps, and even their breathing, but then the sound just, disappeared.” “That’s The Czech,” he replied. “He can halt vibrations, effectively sound-proofing an area around him. He knows he’s getting close to us.” “What do we do then?” Mashka asked, leaning tighter against the cold metal wall. Chekhov thought a moment as he formulated a plan, “We are near the docks along the Lake. I’ll lead them off. Aleksei, you take Maryja and stay near the water.” “No,” Aleksei replied, “You’re only accounting for two people, who is to say that they don’t have a third in their party. It would be logical, if there are three of us, they would want to have at least three of them. This means, if we break into only two groups, they have the advantage of being able to corner us.” “Splitting up isn’t an option either!” Mashka said decisively. “Maryja’s right,” Chekhov agreed. “Here's a thought: I can fly. However as soon as I do, our position is compromised, and I can only carry one of you.” He thought a moment, then turning to Mashka he said, “I’ll fly away with you to somewhere safe, then come back to get Aleksei afterwards.” “What?!” Mashka gasped, “No! You can’t leave Aleksei, take him!” “Mashka,” Aleksei said reassuringly, “I’ll be fine, I have a tactical advantage. You are not the only one who can sense people at a distance. The three of us are no to get into an all-out melee, or worse a gunfight. Withdrawl is our best strategy. Besides, the lake and the docks are nearby. I’ll have plenty of places to hide and I’ll be near water. I have all the protection I need.” Mashka looked at her brother with concern. “Don’t worry,” Aleksei urged, “I’ll be with you before you know it!” he gave her a confident wink. Chekhov turned to Mashka, “Want to ride piggyback, or face towards me?” he asked. “Uhhh,” Mashka replied dumbstruck. Chekhov rolled his eyes at her hesitation, “It’s easier if you just hug me.” He suggested mildly. “Ok.” she said, wrapping her arms tight around him, knowing she was about to go for another rough ride ending in a likely painful landing. Aleksei turned his back to them and crouched, ready to run. “Now!” he ordered as he dashed off. Dust spiralled around Mashka and Chekhov for a moment, before they shot into the air, making a low explosive roar. All signs of Aleksei’s confident expression vanished. He was alone, even if just for a little while. The Czech could pop out from any direction, through any one of the cargo crates. He gripped the charms at his chest which Duscha had given him and prayed, "Oh Sacred Child of Mary, have your mist swallow my enemies and deliver me." He looked at Lake Onega, feeling the the moisture in the air and sensing the vast depths of the waters. "Rise!" he pleaded. The glassy waters stirred and whispered back their assent, and reflected moon danced on the boiling lake.~~~~~~~~~~ The Czech looked in the direction of the hollow blast, and saw a dark figure shoot into the night sky, and vanish. 'Chekhov!' He ran towards it had taken off from. His ear bud buzzed, “Anya here! I just saw subject two run around the corner.” He responded quickly, “Get him! The other two flew away.” Anya grunted in anger. “Just chase after him, he’s the only chance we have.” The Czech ordered, "He will..." he was cut off by what sounded like torrential rain muffled by walls. "Do you hear that?" The subtle thrum because a low\ bellow and then a chorus of high pitched shrieks. "Uh..." Anya uttered her uncertainty as a moist breeze blasted her face followed by the docks becoming a grey realm of unearthly whispers. "This is why we should be in bloody Kazakhstan!" she roared.

The three weary travellers stepped onto the small loading platform. It was a peaceful morning and there were a mere few other itinerants waiting for the train. Aleksei’s shoulders and back popped as he stretched. “Hooray! We can stop walking!” he exclaimed in jubilation. Mashka smoothed the fabric of her newly acquired clothing; a cobalt skirt and crimson blouse with a warm brown coat. It felt nice to be in some fresh garments, even though she felt a little guilty about wearing someone else’s things. “Oh, yeah!” Aleksei cried, “I forgot.” he pulled out a dirty red headscarf and a pair of broken spectacles. “These are what helped me find you two yesterday. I was going to return them.” Mashka grimaced, “Thanks, but I think I’ll wash it first.” Chekhov also turned him down, “I only wear them because I’m a tad farsighted, and I doubt they’ll be of much use in their current state.” Aleksei nodded in agreement and discarded the spectacles at a nearby trash can. A seasoned conductor approached and addressed Chekhov in a pleasant gravelly voice, “Hello Yuri. These are your charges, da?” Mashka and Aleksei looked at one another, 'Yuri?' then directed their suspicious eyes at Chekhov. “That is correct, Kirill. I hope this is not too much trouble.” Chekhov replied, his grin radiating gratefulness. “Not at all! You saved my sorry-” he paused a moment when he remembered Mashka's presence, and edited his phrase, “well you saved me anyway. The least I can do is give you a ride,” he gestured politely. “This way,” beckoning them to follow him. In the next few minutes they were seated in a cosy and private compartment with two benches facing each other. After the final call for boarding, the train began to depart the station. After the conductor left, Mashka raised her eyebrow, “Yuri?“ she hissed. “In my line of work, we have many names.” he explained, “Yuri was one of them.” “So he’s doing a favour for someone he does not even know?” Mashka questioned. “I suppose so. But in all fairness, he did owe me.” Chekhov replied with a shrug. Mashka narrowed her eyes, scrutinising him, “So who are you really?” Mashka prodded. “We know you as Iosif Chekhov, but what’s your real name?” “I think, for you own sake, it would be best I kept that from you.” he answered. Mashka rolled her eyes, “You know how to bolster my confidence.” she quipped, “How can we trust you if we have no idea who you are?” Her “professor” sighed, putting his hands together in thought as he explained, “I fully intend to tell you. The time will come, just not now. I don’t want to keep things from either of you. However, you knowing at the moment could cause problems for all of us.” Aleksei squinted his eyes in thought, “It does make it more difficult to trust you.” “That it may,” Chekhov replied in agreement. “But I think that it is a necessary evil. Do you have an alternative?” Mashka rose and folded down the bunk above her seat and tersely announced, “I don’t know about you, but I am going to rest after that walk.” “Fine,” Aleksei stood, and looked inquisitively at Chekhov, “So, where is the food?” “There’s a dining car next to this one. It should not be too busy and we are in more… generic clothes, so blending in should not be a problem.” Chekhov replied, peeved that he was no longer in his tailored suit. “Excellent because I am starving.” Aleksei said, “Your treat of course?” “Very well,” Chekhov conceded with a smile. Leaving Mashka to her nap, the two of them found a table in the middle of the dining car. Chekhov ordered coffee, and Aleksei asked for a cup of tea and a sandwich. The youth rested his elbow on the table, his cheek on his fist. He stared out the window at the passing countryside. After a few moments he glanced in scrutiny at Chekhov. “Why are you helping us?” Aleksei asked. Without glancing up from the newspaper he was reading, Chekhov replied, “Does not seem like I have much of a choice. We all are in the same fire. You know the saying, ‘birds of a feather flock together.’” “What’s with you and the nonsensical English clichés?” “Call it a hobby.” he smirked. Aleksei smiled, but returned to his interrogation, “You still haven’t answered me. Why help us? You can fly and leave easy enough.” He huffed, deciding to cut to the chase, “I suppose what I really want to know is your reasoning. You have no obligation to assist us, actually assisting us only puts you into more jeopardy. You are trying, and failing, to pretend that you are helping out of mutual necessity.” his intense gaze searched Chekhov’s eyes for an answer, "Which means you are doing one of two likely things; selfless charity or entrapment." Chekhov sighed and looked out the window. Aleksei sat up straight, waiting intently. When he spoke again, the youth was stunned by the change of tone. His voice was heavy and regretful as he spoke, “I could not allow them to do it again. Take two young people and turn them into their pawns.” “So in a way, this is self-serving. However it is not material, it is ego.” Aleksei appraised. “Though I’ll admit, your reasoning possesses a shred of nobility.” “Isn’t everything we do self-serving, in a way?” Chekhov replied, taking a sip of his coffee. Aleksei shrugged and was quiet for a moment, examining what his companion had said. “You aren’t very religious, are you?” he asked offhandedly, seeming to change the topic. Chekhov was surprised by the shift of the conversation, but responded, “Nyet, I would say I’m not religious at all.” “Hmm, interesting,” Aleksei trailed off into his own thoughts, then stated, “At least I know what to expect of you.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Aleksei looked to see if his food was coming. He spoke after a long pause, “You’re walking away from a life you have had for so long. This is going to leave you as a man without a purpose.” “And what’s your point?” Chekhov asked, sounding irritated. Aleksei sighed, “I suppose I’m just rambling. There is no point and this whole conversation was just to waste a few minutes of our lives. However, when you find where you are going, tell me. Until then, I consider you unstable. This is a temporary cooperation. Now,” he stood up, “I must excuse myself for a moment.” “Very well.” Chekhov nodded. Despite his irritation, he had to admit the boy was perceptive, despite being rather confusing. “Wait,” Chekhov spoke up, stopping the young man in his tracks. “Why are you so concerned about this being temporary? We knew going into this partnership, that once the commotion settles down, we would travel our separate ways. So why should you care?” Aleksei crossed his arms in thought, “It’s not that I have any such sentiments towards you. My concern is for my sister. She rarely tried to make friends after our parents’ divorce. And here you come along. I can tell already that she respects you, and has developed some form of attachment to you. What I don’t want to see is her becoming distraught, when you cut and leave. If you establish a friendship with my sister, it is going to be one you better expect to continue, even if at a distance. So until you decide who you are, I suggest you avoid being overly, ah-- er… Ah!, 'birds-of-a-feather' with her.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” Chekhov replied. The two men exchanged one more meaningful look. Then Aleksei turned, and double-stepped towards the water closet with a quiet whimper, eliminating his formerly oppressive aura. As Chekhov mulled over Aleksei’s statements, the train sped onward, heading north through Moscow. It left the bustling city and into the wooded northern Russia, which, he hoped, would provide a means of escape.